Читать книгу The Sheikh Crowns His Virgin - Линн Грэхем, LYNNE GRAHAM - Страница 8

ZOE DESCENDED THE steps of her grandfather’s private jet and as the sunlight of Maraban enveloped her she smiled happily. It was spring and the heat was bearable but, best of all, she was taking the very first brave step into her new life.

On her own, on her own at last, free of the restrictions that her sisters would have attached to her but, most importantly of all, free of the low expectations they had of her. Winnie and Vivi had been amazed when Zoe had agreed to move to a foreign country for a few months without freaking out at the prospect. They had been equally amazed when she’d agreed to marry a much older man to fulfil her part of their agreement with their grandfather, Stamboulas Fotakis. Why not? It wasn’t as though it was going to be a real marriage, merely a pretend marriage in which her future husband made political use of the fact that she was the granddaughter of a former princess of a country called Bania, which no longer existed.

Long before Zoe was even born the two tiny realms of Bania and Mara had joined to become Maraban and apparently her late grandmother, the Princess Azra, had been hugely popular in both countries. Prince Hakem wanted to marry Zoe literally for her ancestry and she would become an Arabian princess and live in the royal palace for several months. There she would enjoy glorious solitude with nobody bothering her, nobody asking how she felt or worriedly enquiring if she thought she should have more therapy to help her cope with ordinary life. Even though she hadn’t had a panic attack in months, her siblings had always been on edge around her, awaiting another one.

Zoe adored her older sisters but their constant care and concern had held her back from the independence she needed to rebuild her self-esteem and forge her own path. And taking part in this silly pretend marriage was all she had to do to finally obtain that freedom.

All three sisters had agreed to marry men of their grandfather’s choosing to gain his financial help for their foster parents, John and Liz Brooke. Winnie and Vivi had already fulfilled that bargain. But in Zoe’s case, no pressure whatsoever had been placed on her and, indeed, John and Liz’s mortgage arrears had been paid off shortly after her sister Vivi’s marriage had taken place. Yes, she thought wryly, even her extremely ruthless grandfather had shrunk from taking the risk of putting pressure on his youngest granddaughter, having taken on board her siblings’ conviction that she was hopelessly fragile and emotionally vulnerable. Nobody had faith in her ability to be strong, Zoe reflected ruefully, which was why it was so very important that she proved for her own benefit that she could be strong.

Like her sisters, Zoe had grown up in foster care, and a terrifying incident when she was twelve years old had traumatised her. But she had buried all that hurt and fear, seemingly flourishing in John and Liz’s happy home, only for those frightening insecurities to come back and engulf her while she was studying botany at university. Having to freely mix with men, having to deal with friends asking why she didn’t want a boyfriend, had put her under severe strain. Her panic attacks had grown worse and worse and, although she had contrived to hide her extreme anxiety from her sisters, she had, ultimately, been unable to deal with her problems alone. Weeks before she sat her final degree exams, she had suffered a nervous breakdown, which had meant that she had had to take time out from her course to recover.

Although she had subsequently completed her degree and worked through the therapy required to put her back on an even track where crippling anxiety no longer ruled her every thought and action, her sisters had continued to treat her as if she could shatter again at any moment. While she understood that their protectiveness came from love, she also saw that their attitude had made her weaker than she need have been and that she badly needed the chance to stand on her own feet. With her sisters now married, one living in Greece and the other in Italy, coming to Maraban was Zoe’s opportunity to prove that she had overcome her unhappy past.

Zoe stepped into the limousine awaiting her, grateful for the reality that her arrival in Maraban was completely low-key. Prince Hakem had insisted that no public appearances or indeed anything of that nature would be required from her. He might be the brother of the current King but he had no official standing in Maraban. Zoe’s grandfather should have been travelling with her but a pressing business matter had led to him asking if she could manage alone if he put off his arrival until the following day. Of course, she could manage, she thought cheerfully, gazing out with lively interest at the busy streets of the capital city, Tasit, which was an intriguing mix of old and new. She saw old buildings and elaborate mosques with quaint colourful turrets nudging shoulders with redeveloped areas boasting soaring skyscrapers and office blocks. Maraban was evidently right in the middle of the process of modernisation.

Oil and gas wealth had transformed the country. Zoe had read everything she could find on Maraban and had rolled her eyes at the discovery that nobody appeared to know why her grandmother, Princess Azra, had failed to marry the current King, Tahir, as she had been expected to do. The bald truth was that Azra had run off with Stamboulas Fotakis sooner than marry a man who’d already had three wives. Presumably that story had been suppressed to conserve the monarch’s dignity. Luckily, Stam had told her everything she needed to know about his late wife’s background.

Darkness was falling fast when the limo driver turned off the road and steered between imposingly large gates guarded by soldiers. Zoe strained to see the enormous property that lay ahead but the limo travelled slowly right on past it, threading a path through a vast complex of buildings and finally drawing up beside one. She was ushered out and indoors before she could even catch her breath and was a little disappointed to find herself standing in a contemporary house. A very large contemporary house, she conceded wryly, with aggressively gilded fancy furniture and nothing whatsoever historic about it. A female servant in a long kaftan bowed to her and showed her up a brilliantly lit staircase into an entire suite of rooms.

Her disappointment that she wasn’t going to be living in the ancient royal palace slowly ebbed as she scanned her comfortable and well-furnished surroundings. It wasn’t ideal that none of the staff spoke her language and that she didn’t speak theirs but miming could accomplish a lot, she told herself bracingly as her companion mimicked eating to let her know that a meal was being brought. And long before she went home again, she should have picked up at least a few useful phrases to enable her to communicate more effectively, she told herself soothingly.

A maid had already arrived to unpack her suitcases when a knock sounded on the door. Zoe made it to the door first.

A slimly built young man and a uniformed nurse hovered outside. ‘I am Dr Wazd,’ the man told her stiffly. ‘I have been instructed to give you a vaccination shot. The nurse will assist.’

Zoe winced because she hated needles and she was surprised because she had had all the required shots for Maraban. But then what she did know that a medical doctor would not know better? She rolled up her sleeve and then frowned as she saw the doctor’s hand on the syringe was shaking. Glancing up at him in surprise, noting the perspiration beading his brow, she wondered if he was a very newly qualified doctor to be so nervous and she was relieved when the nurse silently filched the syringe from him and gave her the injection without further ado. It stung and she gritted her teeth.

No sooner was that done than a tray of food arrived and she sat down at the table to eat, noting that she was feeling dizzy and woolly-headed and surmising that she was already suffering the effects of jet lag. But while she was eating, she began feeling as though the world around her were slowing down and her body felt as heavy as lead. Feeling dizzy even seated, she rose to go to the bathroom and had to grip the back of a chair to balance. As she wobbled on her heels, blinking rapidly, a suffocating blackness folded in and she dropped down into it with a gasp of dismay...

* * *

His Royal Highness, Prince Faraj al-Basara, was in a very high-powered meeting in London dealing with his country’s oil and gas production when his private mobile thrummed a warning in his pocket. Few people had that number and it only ever rang if it was very, very important. Excusing himself immediately, Raj stepped outside, his brain awash with sudden apprehension. Had his father taken ill? Or had some other calamity occurred back home in Maraban?

Maraban was a tiny Gulf state but it was also one of the richest countries in the world. A terrorist incident, however, would bring the home of his birth to a screeching halt because the security forces were equally tiny and these days Maraban relied on wealth and diplomacy to stay safe. When Raj thought nostalgically of home, it was always of a place of stark black and white contrasts where four-wheel-drive vehicles and helicopters startled livestock in the desert and where a conservative Middle Eastern ethos struggled to cope with the very different mores and the sheer speed of change in the modern world.

It was eight years, however, since Raj had last visited his home because his father, the King, had removed him from his position as Crown Prince and sent him into exile for refusing to go into the army and for refusing even more vehemently to marry the bride his parent had chosen for him. No, he had not been a dutiful or obedient son, Raj acknowledged with grim self-honesty, he had been a stubborn, rebellious one and, unfortunately for him, there was no greater sin in his culture.

That said, however, Raj had, since, moved on from that less than stellar beginning to carve his own path in the business world and there his shrewd brain, intuition and ability to spot trends had ensured meteoric success in that sphere. He had also learned how to steer Maraban into the future from beyond its borders, making allies, attracting foreign businesses and investment while constantly encouraging growth in the public infrastructure required to keep his country up to speed with the latest technology. And his reward for that tireless focus and resolve? Maraban, the home that he loved, was positively booming.

He was pleasantly surprised when he answered his phone and recognised his cousin, Omar’s voice. Omar had pretty much been his best friend since the dark days of the military school they had both been forced to attend as adolescents, an unforgettable era of relentless bullying and abuse that Raj still winced to recall. As Crown Prince he had had a target painted on his back and his father had told the staff to turn a blind eye, believing that it would be beneficial for his only child to be toughened up in such a severe environment.

‘Omar...what can I do for you?’ he asked almost cheerfully, relieved of the anxiety that his elderly father had taken ill because Omar would not have been chosen as messenger for that development. That call would only have come from a member of his father’s staff. After all, his mother had died while he was still a boy. The memory made him tense for his mother had died in a manner that he would never forget: she had taken her own life. It had taken a very long time for Raj to accept that her unhappiness had surpassed her love for her nine-year-old son and he had never forgotten his sense of abandonment because, once she was gone, everything soft and loving and caring had vanished from his childish world.

‘I’m in a real fix, Raj, and I think you are the only person with sufficient knowledge to approach with this,’ Omar declared, his habitually upbeat voice unusually flat in tone. ‘I’ve been dragged into something I don’t want to be involved in and it’s serious. You know I’m a royalist and very loyal to my country but there are some things I can’t—’

‘Cut to the chase,’ Raj sliced in with a bemused frown. ‘What have you been dragged into?’

‘Early this morning I received a call from someone at the palace who asked if I would look after a “package” and keep it safe until further notice. And that’s the problem, Raj... I didn’t get delivered a package, I got a woman.’

‘A woman?’ Raj repeated in disbelief. ‘Are you joking me?’

‘I wish I was. All the women in the tribe are outraged and I’ve been thrown out of my tent to accommodate her,’ Omar lamented. ‘My wife thinks I’m getting involved in sex trafficking.’

‘It could not be that,’ Raj pronounced with assurance because the penalty for such a crime was death and his father was most assiduous in ensuring that neither drugs nor prostitution gained ground in Maraban.

‘No, of course it couldn’t be,’ Omar agreed. ‘But even though the order came from the very highest level of the palace I should not be asked by anyone to imprison a woman against her will.’

‘How do you know the order came from the very highest level?’ Raj demanded.

His cousin mentioned a name and Raj gritted his teeth. Bahadur Abdi was the most trusted military adviser in his father’s inner circle and could only be acting at the King’s command. That shocking truth shed an entirely different light on the kidnapping because it meant that Raj’s father was personally involved. ‘Who the hell is this woman?’

‘You’re not going to like the suspicion I’m developing any more than I do,’ his cousin warned him heavily. ‘But I contacted the palace as soon as I appreciated I was being asked to deal with a live package and I was told that she was the last descendant of the al-Mishaal family, which was a shock. Thought they were all dead and buried long ago! Were you even aware that my father divorced my mother two months ago?’

Raj was shocked enough by both those revelations to listen keenly as Omar described his mother’s refusal to discuss the divorce and the oddity of her continuing calm over the termination of a marriage that had lasted almost fifty years and had spawned four children and at least a dozen grandchildren. Prince Hakem, Raj’s uncle and Omar’s father, however, was an embittered and ambitious man, who ever since Raj’s exile had been striving to become the recognised heir to the throne in Raj’s place. Ironically, Raj didn’t even really feel that he could blame his uncle for his ambition because, as the King’s younger brother, Hakem had spent his whole life close to the throne but virtually ignored and powerless, his royal brother refusing to grant him any form of responsibility in the kingdom. Furthermore, only the King could name his heir and Hakem had long desired a role of power and the rise in status it would accord him.

‘So, what’s the connection with this woman?’

Omar shared his suspicions and Raj paled and experienced a spontaneous surge of rage at such a manipulative plot being played out in virtual secret behind the palace walls. ‘Surely that is not possible?’

‘It may not be. I must admit that the woman doesn’t look remotely as if she carries Marabanian blood. She’s got white-blonde hair...looks like something out of that fairy tale... The Sleeping Beauty,’ Omar revealed heavily.

Raj parted compressed lips. ‘Princess Azra of Bania was the daughter of a Danish explorer, who was blond,’ he murmured flatly. ‘I don’t know much about Azra’s elopement with her Greek tycoon, who was working in Maraban when the two countries joined, but I do know her flight with another man created a huge scandal. She was supposed to become my father’s fourth wife and instead, she ran off with Fotakis and married him.’

‘Didn’t know that...but then it’s not really my slice of history in the same way as it’s yours.’ Omar sighed heavily. ‘Just give me some diplomatic advice about what to do next because I’m at a standstill. This woman has obviously been kidnapped. Our doctor says she’s been drugged, so she’s unconscious and she arrived with no means of identification. But even if she is one of the al-Mishaal family’s next generation from that marriage all those years ago I still can’t believe that any young woman would agree to marry a man as old as my father—’

‘It would shock you what some Western women would be willing to do to become an Arabian princess with unlimited wealth at their disposal. Suggest that a crown could also be on offer and there would be many takers of that particular bargain,’ Raj breathed with cynical derision, his lean, darkly handsome features clenching hard as he reflected on his own experiences and the shattering betrayal he had endured...and worst of all, only after he had destroyed his standing with his father for ever. Even years after that youthful disillusionment, he was grimly aware of the pulling power of his status and wealth in the West. In his radius even seemingly intelligent women frothed and gushed like champagne, desperate to attract and bed him. Sadly for them, he didn’t find being chased, flattered or potentially seduced remotely attractive because he preferred to do his own hunting in that field. And, almost inevitably, that shattering act of infidelity following on from his mother’s suicide had underlined his growing conviction that women were not to be trusted.

‘Possibly not...shocked,’ Omar clarified as tactfully as he knew how because he too was probably thinking about that old and demeaning history that still scarred Raj’s pride. ‘But I can tell you that if that is my father’s game, very few of our people would like or accept such a marriage. My father is unpopular: he’s as old school as your father. I don’t know anyone who would be willing to accept him as the heir in place of you, no, not even if he has somehow contrived to bring back the ghost of the al-Mishaal royal family as a potential bride!’

Raj had been away from palace politics for a very long time but he had not forgotten the scheming games of one-upmanship involved. In the role of Hakem’s bride, Princess Azra’s granddaughter would be a priceless figurehead, Raj acknowledged grimly. Half the population of Maraban came from Banian roots and all had been seriously dissatisfied forty-odd years ago when the joining of the two states was not matched as had been promised by a marital alliance between Bania’s only Princess and Mara’s King. All those people had felt cheated by the absence of Banian blood in the royal family tree of Maraban. It would be a triumph for his uncle to marry Azra’s descendant and it definitely would increase his popularity, which was precisely why Raj’s father would never have allowed such a marriage to take place: King Tahir did not tolerate competition or, for that matter, a little brother he deemed to be getting too big for his boots. After such a publicity-grabbing stunt, Hakem could only have been hoping to be named the King’s heir and step into Raj’s former position as Crown Prince in his nephew’s stead.

Omar broke into Raj’s racing thoughts. ‘Tell me, what am I to do with her?’ he demanded, infuriated that an innocent woman had been kidnapped to prevent a marriage he believed to be wholly inappropriate. ‘How do I safely and decently rid myself of this appalling responsibility? ‘

And Raj told him with a succinctness that shook both of them before he powered back into his meeting to apologise and explain that a family crisis demanded his immediate attention. He contacted an investigation firm, who had done excellent work for him in the past, to request an immediate file on his uncle’s putative bride. He needed information and he needed it fast yet he was aware that he was struggling to concentrate.

Why?

For the first time in eight years, Raj would be returning to the country of his birth and, although anger was driving him at the prospect of being forced to deal with another unscrupulous and mercenary woman, on another much more basic level he was quietly exhilarated at the prospect of seeing his homeland again...

* * *

Zoe surfaced from an uneasy, woozy dream to find someone helping her to lift a glass of water to her lips. Her eyes refused to focus and her body felt limp but she knew she needed the bathroom and said so. Someone helped her rise and supported her—more than one someone, she registered dimly, because her limbs were too weak to carry her. She tried to scan her surroundings but the walls being weirdly bendy spooked her and momentarily she shut her eyes as she was helped back to bed. She had been drugged, taken somewhere, she registered fearfully, fighting without success to stay conscious and focus. She had to protect herself, had to protect herself! That self-saving litany rang through her brain like a wake-up call...but even that panic couldn’t prevent her from sliding down into oblivion again.

* * *

When Raj received the info on Zoe Mardas, he was forced to rapidly rearrange his expectations. Why on earth would such a woman be willing to marry a man almost as old as her grandfather? Clearly, financial greed would be a most unlikely motive for a woman with the billionaire Stamboulas Fotakis at her back. Fotakis was her grandfather and, by all accounts, an extremely protective relative. Other more stressful concerns then started dawning on Raj. The Greek tycoon would scarcely take the kidnapping of his granddaughter lying down. He would not allow it to be hushed up either. Yet, even more strangely, it did look as though Fotakis had been the prime mover and shaker behind the proposed marriage between Hakem and Zoe. What was Stam Fotakis getting out of it? Some lucrative business deal? Or a title for his granddaughter? Raj pondered those unknowns and decided to contact Fotakis direct...

* * *

Someone was brushing Zoe’s hair when she next woke up, someone murmuring softly in a foreign language. She opened her eyes and saw an older woman, who smiled down at her from her kneeling stance by her side while she brushed Zoe’s long mane of pale blonde hair with admiring care. She did not seem hostile or threatening in any way and Zoe forced a smile, her innate survival instincts kicking in. Until she knew what was happening she would be a good little prisoner, playing along until such time as her grandfather came to rescue her; because one thing she did know: Stamboulas Fotakis would not be long in putting in an appearance. He would create a huge fuss the instant he realised that Zoe had gone missing and no rock would be left unturned in his search for her, she reflected with a strong sense of relief.

Gently detaching her hair from the woman’s light hold, she sat up and the woman stood up and helpfully showed her straight to the bathroom. Even by that stage, Zoe was recognising that she had not been disorientated the night before when she had thought the walls surrounding her looked rather odd. Evidently, she was no longer at the villa in the palace complex, she was in a tent, a very large and very luxurious tent decorated with rich hangings and opulent seating but, when all was said and done, it was still a tent! And the connecting bathroom was also under canvas. Zoe felt hot and sweaty and looked longingly at the shower, but she didn’t want to risk the vulnerability of getting naked. She freshened up with cold water, dried her face and frowned down at the unfamiliar long white fine cotton shift she now wore in place of the skirt and top she had travelled in. That creepy nervous doctor and his sidekick, she thought in disgust. She would never trust a doctor again!

Why had she been taken from Prince Hakem’s villa? Although no one had ever told her that it was his villa, she had simply assumed it was. Presumably somebody didn’t want this marriage of his to take place, she reasoned reflectively. No problem, she thought ruefully, there had been no need to assault her with a syringe, send her to sleep and ship her out to a tent because she would quite happily go home again without any argument. Furthermore, she rather thought that would be her grandfather’s reaction as well because he had demanded very strong assurances from her bridegroom-to-be that she would be safe and secure in Maraban and he would be appalled at what had happened to her. Surely her becoming a princess to follow in the footsteps of her formerly royal grandmother, Princess Azra, would not still be so important to Stam Fotakis that he would expect his granddaughter to risk life and limb in the process?

Two women were setting out a meal when she returned to the main tent and she roamed as casually as she could in the direction of the doorway that had been left uncovered. What she glimpsed froze her in her tracks in instant denial. She saw a circle of tents and beyond them sand dunes that ran off into the horizon. She was in the desert, so escaping would be more of a challenge than she felt equal to because she would need transport and a map at the very least for such a venture. The discovery that she had been plunged into such an alien environment sent her nervous tension climbing higher and she swallowed hard. Where else had she expected a tent to be pitched but in the desert? she asked herself irritably.

Above one of the tents she espied the rotor blades of a helicopter. Was that how she had arrived? Had she been flown in? She shuddered as another far more frightening thought suddenly occurred to her.

Why was she assuming that she had been kidnapped to prevent the wedding taking place in forty-eight hours? Her grandfather was an extremely rich man. It was equally possible that she had been taken so that a ransom demand could be made for her release. That scenario meant that someone laying violent hands on her was a much more likely development, she decided sickly, her tummy hollowing out. As one of the women carefully threaded her stiff arms into a concealing wrap and even tied it for her, Zoe could feel all the hallmarks of an impending panic attack assailing her and she was already zoning out as her thoughts raged out of her control.

She saw a mental image of herself beaten up in a photo for her grandfather’s benefit. Her heart raced and she turned rapidly away from the view of the encampment, incapable of even noticing that the two women with her were hastily bowing and backing out of the tent again or that a male figure now stood silhouetted in the doorway. Her throat was tight, making it hard for her to catch her breath. She was shivering in spite of the heat, cold, then hot, dizziness making her sway as panic threatened.

I’m fine, I’m strong, I can cope, she chanted inwardly. But the mantra that usually worked to steady her failed because for several unbearable seconds she was simply overpowered by fear.

A male voice sounded directly behind her and a hand brushed her shoulder. Startled, terrified, Zoe reacted automatically with the self-defence tactics she had spent months learning so that she had the skills she needed to ensure her personal safety.

She spun at speed, her elbow travelling up for a chest blow and her clenched fist heading for a throat strike while her knee lifted to aim at the groin. Raj was so disconcerted by a woman the size of a child attacking him that he almost fell over in sheer shock and then his own training kicked in and, light as dancer on his feet, he twisted and blocked her before bringing her down on the rug beneath their feet with careful hands.

‘Let go of me, you bastard!’ she railed at him, clawing, biting and scratching and in the act contriving to dislodge the white keffiyeh that covered his head.

Still reeling with disconcertion, Raj backed off several steps because he couldn’t subdue her without hurting her and he refused to take that risk. She squirmed frantically away and the sheer terror in her face savaged his view of himself. Her eyes were glassy, her face white as snow.

‘You are quite safe here. Nobody is going to hurt you.’ Raj crouched down to her level while she wriggled back against a carved wooden chest like a trapped animal and hugged her knees, rocking back and forth. She was tiny and his every instinct was to protect her. ‘On my honour, I swear that you are safe...’ he intoned with as much conviction as he could get into the assurance, because she wasn’t listening to him and she wasn’t looking at him.

He was annoyed that his cousin had not sent his English-speaking wife, Farida, in to Zoe immediately to explain that there was no threat of any kind against her. But most of all, he cursed his father and the omnipotence he wielded in Maraban, for Raj was convinced that his wily father had ordered the kidnapping of Hakem’s youthful bride-to-be. Would his father have counted the cost to the woman involved? Would he even have foreseen that he was unleashing the kind of explosively damaging scandal that no self-respecting country could withstand? No, his father, Tahir, would not have looked at that bigger picture of cause and effect. He would simply have set out to ensure that his ambitious brother’s plot to raise his status was foiled while steadfastly refusing to acknowledge the likelihood of unexpected consequences.

In a fierce temper at that frustrating knowledge, Raj sank down beside Zoe Mardas on his knees and began to coax her into attempting a breathing exercise, aimed at calming her down. Extraordinary green eyes, clear as emeralds, skimmed over him and she blinked, long feathery lashes dipping. For a split second he was frozen in place by her ice-cool Scandinavian beauty. He coached her in breathing in, holding her breath and then very slowly breathing out again. She did so and then shot him an exasperated look, not the kind of look Raj was accustomed to receiving from young women.

‘Yes, I do know how to do that for myself!’ Zoe told him sharply as soon as she was breathing normally again. ‘Why do you know how?’

‘For a while in my teens, I suffered similar episodes,’ Raj admitted, startling himself with that candour as much as he startled her; for the severe bullying he had endured at military school had for years afterwards left him damaged. He could only think his candour had been unwisely drawn from him by his glimpse of her at her most vulnerable and a natural need to put her at her ease.

In receipt of that surprising admission, Zoe stared back at him in wonderment because in her experience men were much less willing to admit to suffering such a condition. But before she could question him further to satisfy her curiosity, he vaulted gracefully upright again. She watched him smooth down his rumpled white buttoned tunic and snatch up the white head cloth she had dislodged in their tussle. And then, strikingly, for the first time in her life Zoe looked at a man with interest because there was no denying it: whoever he was, he was without question the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. Dense silky blue-black curls covered his well-shaped skull while high cheekbones and hollows fed into a truly spectacular bone structure sheathed in olive skin. Dark-as-the-devil eyes glittered below straight ebony brows. A faint shadow of stubble surrounded his wide sensual mouth, his full soft lower lip tensing as he noticed her lingering scrutiny.

Turning pink, Zoe hurriedly glanced away while scolding herself for staring but, really, with looks of that quality, he had to be accustomed to being stared at by women, she reasoned defensively, uneasy with her speeded-up heartbeat and the sudden tightening of her nipples.

She wasn’t that sort of woman, she reminded herself resolutely. Sex didn’t interest her. Basically, men didn’t interest her. She had been thrown off the path of normal development at the age of twelve when an attempted rape had devastated her. Ever since then she had held herself apart, avoiding mixed company unless it was family-orientated. She was perfectly happy around her brothers-in-law, Eros and Raffaele, and she hadn’t been nervous either when dealing with the male parents at the childcare nursery where she had worked for months immediately after her recovery from her breakdown. Back then a full-time job in her own field of botany had seemed too challenging as a first step back into the real world.

‘Who are you?’ she asked baldly.

‘You may call me Raj. I am no one of importance here,’ he intoned in smooth dismissal, for he intended to fly back out of Maraban within the hour because he could not risk discovery and possible arrest. ‘But this nomadic base camp is where my cousin, Sheikh Omar, lives at this time of year.’

Zoe bridled as she scrambled upright, wishing for about the thousandth time that she was even a few inches taller, for being only four feet eleven inches tall was not an advantage when it came to persuading people to take her seriously. Unsurprisingly, Raj towered over her but he wasn’t quite as tall as her brothers-in-law, both of whom put her in mind of giants when she was around them. ‘Is he the man responsible for bringing me here...against my will?’ she stressed acidly.

‘No, he is not,’ Raj told her emphatically. ‘Nor would he harm a hair on your head but he has kept his distance because he does not speak English.’

‘Then who is responsible for bringing me here?’ Zoe demanded, standing her ground, tensing her spine to keep her back and shoulders straight and her head high. Her favourite self-help book urged that even if you didn’t feel confident, it was still possible to fake confidence and by so doing actually acquire it.

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ Raj countered flatly.

Zoe’s green eyes flared as if he had slapped her. ‘Why not?’ she demanded.

‘It would serve no useful purpose.’

Zoe breathed in very deeply to contain the temper she hadn’t known she had until that moment. He was so incredibly patronising, so superior and his attitude affected her like a chalk scraping down a blackboard, setting her teeth on edge. ‘That’s my decision to make, not yours,’ she said succinctly.

Engaged in replacing his keffiyeh, Raj looked heavenward, involuntarily amused by that argument. She was like a doll with that tiny stature of hers and her phenomenally long blonde hair and she barely reached his chest.

‘You’re not taking me seriously,’ she condemned.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Raj conceded grudgingly. ‘I arrived here to sort this unfortunate mess out and that is what I intend to do.’

‘Is it indeed?’ Zoe snapped, incredulous that he had simply admitted his inability to treat her like an intelligent individual because, in her experience, most people lied on that score, denying that her diminutive size coloured their attitude towards her.

Raj paced several steps away from her, having discovered that proximity was unwise. His attention kept on dropping to that soft full pink mouth, that shimmering fall of pale hair, the barely noticeable little feminine curves hinting at her physical shape beneath the robe. He shifted, a kick of lust at his groin exasperating him for it was inappropriate and Raj was always very appropriate in his reactions to women. He controlled his responses, he did not allow them to control him and he had never understood the intoxicating lust that he had heard other men talk about, because only one woman had ever tested his control and, even then, it had not overwhelmed him.

‘I intend to have you conveyed home as soon as it is possible...unless you are unwilling to give up the possibility of marrying my uncle, Prince Hakem, and becoming a princess,’ Raj murmured bluntly. ‘I suspect my aunt, his wife of many years, whom he recently divorced, would be relieved to have the ingrate back by default, little though he deserves her forgiveness and understanding...’